


Echoes of the Past

by nellvonb



Category: All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: 18th Century, Canon Related, Gen, Headcanon, Historical, Historical References, Pre-Canon, Shadow of Night, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellvonb/pseuds/nellvonb
Summary: Part of a series of planned (historical) fics, taking place after Shadow of Night and before the events of A Discovery of Witches. Follows Philippe de Clermont and everything he did to keep the de Clermont’s greatest secret and protect his family.





	1. 1749, Sept-Tours and Rotterdam

Philippe de Clermont’s wife was wroth. He had been granted a few short-lived decades of peace, Ysabeau seemingly having come to terms with his decision not to investigate Louisa’s death, but her rage had been renewed more than half a century after the fact.

“Louisa – God have mercy on her soul – had exposed herself to the locals. They knew what she was, she was never good at hiding it – she made little effort to try,” he had tried to reason, but Ysabeau would have none of it.

“They are framing her as a casualty in a slave revolt! How can we be sure that other creatures were not involved?” Ysabeau trembled and her Occitan – normally clearly enunciated – spilled out in jagged breaths, but Philippe shook his head.

“It matters not how her death is framed. Investigating would draw the attention of the congregation. That would put our entire family at risk, exposing the sickness which afflicted her and the role we have played in hiding it. And for what? To discover what we already know? That she made too many enemies on that small island at the edge of the New World?” The de Clermont patriarch spoke with reason, expertly masking the half-truth which lay within his words. He knew that Ysabeau wanted to take Louisa’s blood – to see her final moments as well as her memories of the past century she’d spent in exile. But to allow his wife such closure would reveal his greatest deception. “I will not allow any de Clermonts on Barbados. This is my final word.”

Ysabeau regarded her mate with a cold, blackened gaze. Ancient and strong as he was, it chilled Philippe to his core to see such loathing in the eyes of the woman he loved.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper, coarse from her grief. “I should have never allowed you to send her away. She was not _yours_.”

The rest of the de Clermonts, for the most part, had been confused by Philippe’s uncharacteristically passive stance towards the murder of his mate’s daughter, but none had dared to speak out against him, even privately. Ysabeau remained furious with Philippe for nearly three decades – easily half a life time for most warmbloods under the best of circumstances. Slowly, her anger gave way to acceptance, and their lives in Sept-Tours began to resemble what it had been before.

Now, however, in 1749, Ysabeau’s fury returned all at once when Philippe announced his intention to travel to the Americas. Much yelling had followed, as well as broken glass. Philippe observed with relief that his mate had spared his favorite Venetian glasses.

On the day of his departure, Ysabeau only begrudgingly bestowed a kiss on Philippe’s cheek before he set off. Rather than striking west for one of the French ports, Philippe headed north for the Low Countries, destined for Rotterdam. Travelling without any retainers, he rode without rest, stopping only to change mounts. As he proceeded farther north, the common language shifted away from Romance and towards Germanic. By the time Philippe stopped to hunt in the thick forests surrounding Maastricht, he heard only Dutch or Flemish spoken among the common people.

After five days of continuous riding, Philippe arrived at the port of Rotterdam. The city itself very closely resembled Amsterdam; but while Amsterdam’s canals had been built deep _into_ the land, creating a series of concentric circles of water, Rotterdam’s canals had been carved along the water, with rectangular and triangular islands of land forming the city’s port.

The chill of winter clung to the breeze, but it was an otherwise pleasant early May morning. The sun hung low in a cloudless sky, warming the city enough to amplify the fishy scent coming from the port.

Philippe was pacing along the water, observing the small armada of merchant ships currently in port, when he spotted a familiar dark figure staring blankly at a docked fluyt as a flock of grimy men unloaded her wares. Philippe smoothed down the collar of his own deep maroon wool coat and approached his son.

“Ah, _Meneer_...?”

The figure turned and one corner of his wide mouth titled into a lopsided smile which conveyed nothing close to happiness. One hand reached out in offer.

“Van den Bergh, _Sieur_.”

Philippe clasped Matthew’s outstretched hand and nodded in understanding. His son had opted for a Dutch surname, given the current hostile climate towards the French.

“ _Als ik het goed begreep, zoekt U een schip_ ,” Matthew continued. Philippe nodded again and followed his son’s lead, responding in slightly-accented Dutch.

“Yes, that is correct. Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

Matthew’s expression turned to one of exasperation. “Why?”

“I told you in my brief. Your nephew is roaming Massachusetts Bay. He needs to be reminded that _we all_ have a duty to the family.” Philippe fixed his golden-brown eyes on Matthew, underscoring the double meaning behind his words.

“You have brought no retainers. Let me accompany you.”

“No.” It came out more harshly than Philippe had intended, and Matthew darkened. Even after more than a millennium, his son continued to struggle with taking orders for which no reason was given. He could sense a secret and resented not being trusted to know its contents.

The black look in Matthew’s eyes reminded Philippe that this was not the grieving Matthew of times not yet passed, the Matthew who had killed his father; this was the Matthew of _now_ , the Matthew who _would_ one day kill his father. Not for the first time since bidding Diana’s Matthew goodbye, Philippe needed to placate his son with well-intended half-truths. “I am going to the Americas to see Gallowglass because I cannot compel him to return otherwise. He will certainly not come to Sept-Tours. You are needed here.”

Matthew’s eyes and jaw still maintained a tightness that suggested he was not ready to back down.

“You have not asked about your mother,” Philippe mused, glancing over at the docks as another ship’s crew erupted into an argument over a large shipment of spices which had spilled in the hull.

“How is _Maman_?”  Although his tone was even, Matthew cast his gaze downwards, properly shamed by Philippe’s mild rebuke.

“She is well. Although, I will not lie to you, she is much displeased – with me.”

“She grieves Louisa, even if she does not rage.” Matthew drew a hand over his head, smoothing back his black hair. “I do not question your judgement, father. I simply cannot understand why you must take a ship across the ocean to see Gallowglass – who is, by all reports, perfectly well – but would not move so much as a foot away from Sept-Tours when my sister was murdered. If you have a reason, why should you not share it with _Maman_? She needs to know.”

By now the quarreling crew had drawn the attention of the other seamen, dockhands, and anxious merchants, crowding close to where Philippe and Matthew stood. Philippe gestured lightly with his hand, and the two men started pacing away from the gaggle of on-lookers. They stopped once they’d reached a more secluded area where the only activity was a skinny calico cat prowling for morsels.

Philippe turned to his son and considered his words carefully. _This is not Diana’s Matthew_ , he reminded himself. “I need not explain my decision to your mother or to you or anyone else. One day, you will come to understand what it means to protect your family.”

“I do my part in protecting the family,” Matthew interjected, his expression quickly blackening again, “or have you forgotten, what you-” Philippe held up a hand, quieting him.

“Sometimes, to protect the ones you love, you will hurt them. You will keep them in the dark – to keep them safe – and it will bring them pain. It will bring you pain, as well.” _But you will do it anyway, to protect your queen._

Father and son stood there in silence. Matthew’s brows drew together, contemplating his father’s words, until he looked back out to the harbor. The excitement over the ruined spices died down, some resolution apparently having been met. Seagulls screeched overhead and the morning sun cast long shadows for the two _manjasang_. At last, Matthew broke the silence. “I have booked your passage on the _Leslie_. She sails in two days for Philadelphia by way of Cowes.”

“Philadelphia? Not New York, or Boston?”

“She was the first available ship with... _favorable_ passengers and crewmen.” In response to Philippe’s questioning look, Matthew continued. “I assumed that if you were travelling this far north for a ship, you wished to avoid being seen by too many acquaintances.”

“My son, you wound me. Could I not simply have wished to see you?” Matthew responded with a bored expression. Prolonged exposure to Calvinists seemed to augment his son’s melancholic nature.

Matthew went on. “The _Leslie_ is carrying Palatines. No creatures and no names which I recognize. I know how you feel about false names, but I have given you a German alias for the voyage. It will be much quieter if the humans do not hear a French name.”

 _A false name. Yet another lie_. Rather than protest, Philippe nodded. “Continue to monitor the situation with the stadtholder and his supporters. Baldwin has command in my absence.”

“Yes,” Matthew replied simply, his mood evidently not brightened at the prospect of reporting to Baldwin. With that, Philippe nodded a curt goodbye to Matthew and turned back towards town.

Over a hundred and fifty years had passed since Diana and her Matthew left Sept-Tours, and every day the secret of their marriage and Philippe’s blood oath tortured him. He was knowingly lying to half of his family, including his mate. _How much longer must I carry this burden?_ As soon as Philippe’s mind formed the question, he knew the answer. _Only until Matthew kills me. I will never see Diana again. Matthew will kill me before then – perhaps even before she is born_. Philippe shook his head, not wanting to dwell on his eventual death. _This is why I must see Gallowglass. He is looking for Diana in the wrong time_.


	2. 1749, The Colonies

Diana and Matthew vanished from sight first. Then their scents and the sounds of their mounts dissolved into nothingness. But Philippe de Clermont, mounted atop a stocky, black garron, remained rooted to the spot, staring at the path his daughter and son had trod, before finally turning back for Saint-Lucien.

Back at Sept-Tours, several servants were busy clearing paths through the snowdrifts. After leaving his mount at the stables, Philippe strode straight into the castle, broad shoulders pulled back as though bracing for battle. Just inside the massive wooden doors, he was met by Alain Le Merle. Diana’s and Matthew’s presence – their wedding, and the yuletide festival which had followed – breathed so much life into the castle. By comparison, the castle now felt more like an abandoned ruin than a home.

Philippe’s shoulders dropped and he turned to Alain. “I believe you know what must be done.”

“I will have words with the household, and make a visit to the village,” Alain said, bowing slightly before excusing himself from the master of the house.

Philippe, for his part, took charge removing every trace of Diana from the castle – a task made all the more difficult, given her unique scent and the way it seemed to linger on every stone. All windows in the castle were thrown open, exposing the castle’s interior to the bitter winter. Any linens Diana had touched were a lost cause. Philippe stripped the beds in both Louisa’s room and Matthew’s tower. He was feeding the fireplace in Matthew’s room with woolen blankets when Alain returned.

“So?” Philippe prompted.

“All members of the household and residents of the village have taken a vow of secrecy, my lord. Diana is no one; Matthew has not been here this year.”

Philippe nodded. “And they have been made aware of the consequences for breaking this vow?”

“Yes, my lord, in explicit detail.”

Philippe, satisfied with Alain’s report, gestured at the bed. “We must burn the _materas_ as well, but somewhere away from the castle. Perhaps in the village. My wife will not think it strange if I have donated some things to feed the villagers’ hearths.”

“Surely we may spare the bed? Your son is very fond of this one.” Alain traced the leaf-like carvings on one of the bedposts. Something on the floor caught his eye and he bent forward to pick it up. When he straightened, he offered a long, wispy piece of fabric to Philippe: a sleeve from Diana’s wedding dress. Philippe smiled.

“You will burn her clothes as well, my lord?” Alain asked, still holding the sleeve in his hand.

“Oh yes, and Matthew’s as well. However, I see no harm in holding onto this for my daughter.” Philippe considered the sleeve for a moment. “I will leave that to you, Alain.” Philippe’s squire gave him a puzzled look, not understanding why Philippe himself would not hang onto the sleeve – ignorant of the fact that Philippe was not likely to live long enough to see Diana in her own time. But Alain knew better than to contradict his liege lord.

“I will ensure it is kept safely and... out of sight.” Alain gave Philippe another small bow before turning and leaving the tower.

Philippe turned back to the fire. Flames leapt and danced around the linens, reducing them to a blackened heap. The ancient _manjasang_ was, once again, left in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

The sounds of bells and waves crashing against land broke through the silence. Then came voices, dozens of voices, raised and excited, shouting.

Philippe de Clermont opened his eyes. There was movement all around him. Men, sons, and a sprinkling of women shuffled about, their arms full of what few belongings they had brought with them to the Americas. Philippe stood gracefully from his hammock, reached down, and swung his small leather bag over his shoulders. He stood out as the passenger who had brought the least with him on this journey, but he didn’t have the patience to fuss over anything more than a change of clothes and a modest amount of coin (“modest” in that he carried enough gold and silver to purchase half of the city, rather than all of it).

Deep thudding sounds followed Philippe as he walked down the gangway and onto the docks. He hadn’t gotten sea sick once during the voyage but standing on something stable and immobile for the first time in four and half months seemed to upset his center of gravity. The other passengers from the _Leslie_ poured out behind him and parted to either side, like water flowing around a stone.

A cloudy October sky hung overhead, casting the world in a grey gloom despite it being midday. Like any port city, Philadelphia had a fishy odor to it, but it was not as overpowering as it had been in Rotterdam. The wind here carried a mixture of scents that was more pleasant, more earthen – rich, black soil and damp wood burning in the distance.

A new university had just been founded in the city – not yet ten years open – and a new hospital was currently under construction (the first in the British colonies, if Philippe was not mistaken), but lord de Clermont didn’t have the time – or the desire – to wander this strange new city.

The first tavern he came across was a small timber construction, clearly older than the neighboring brick homes built in the Georgian style. The sign, which must have once borne the name of the tavern, was so heavily weathered that nothing could be discerned aside from the image of a hare. Inside, the human barman informed the ancient vampire that the best horses could be purchased on a small homestead just north of the city (the owner of the homestead, as it happened, was a close family relation to the barman).

Having paid generously for his strong thoroughbred, Philippe struck north and west, electing to take a route further inland; it meant that his journey would take longer, but also promised to minimize encounters with other humans and creatures.

Despite his efforts, Philippe nevertheless met several other travelers on the road. Somewhere north of New York, he passed by a small family of _manjasang_ travelling south with a handful of black human servants in tow. From their scent, Philippe could tell that none of the brood were very old. The matriarch of the family seemed the most senior member, perhaps three or four hundred years old. She alone met Philippe’s eyes, but she said nothing as they passed one and simply nodded her head gently by way of greeting. Philippe returned the gesture before returning his attention to the road before him.

The dense woods of broadleaf trees abutting the road was an eruption of rich golds and fiery reds. Philippe wondered idly how long it had been since he’d seen a land so untouched by man. Continuing further north, he gave Boston a wide berth, further lengthening his journey, but six days after departing Philadelphia he arrived at a small coastal village north and east of Boston.

As he dismounted, Philippe caught a familiar scent and followed it to a tavern. Dusk had long since settled over the sleepy town; a warm glow radiated through the small windows of the tavern, a welcome sight for weary warmbloods. Inside, Philippe’s eyes immediately settled on the source of the scent. He felt the weight of many curious eyes as he made his way to a small circular table near the back of the room and seated himself in a chair opposite another man.

Philippe’s grandson settled a chilly blue gaze on him as his mouth parted into a broad smile. Gallowglass uttered a string of greetings in the old Nordic tongue, but Philippe remained silent; conversing in any language other than English would only increase the curiosity of the tavern’s predominantly British patronage. As Philippe sat in silence, Gallowglass glanced around, forcing most of the onlookers to return to the conversations of their own company. The brawny Gael brought his ceramic tankard to his lips and Philippe wrinkled his nose.

“What is _that_?” The scent coming from the tankard was sickeningly sweet. Gallowglass took a long pull of the drink before answering.

“Cider, made from pears, very popular here,” he said with satisfaction, “The drink of pioneers.”

“Oh, is that the way of it now? Have you become a foot soldier for the British, clearing the underbrush to make way for their empire?”

Gallowglass’s expression fell and he set his tankard down on the table gingerly. Luckily, the tavern was filled once again with the dull hum of chatter, drowning out the exchange between the two _manjasang_. “If you have come all this way to discuss politics, _grandsire_ -”

“You know very well that is not why, _grandson_.” His voice was even but held a threat that only a family patriarch such as Philippe could command. “Please, tell me that the Bishops have not seen you.” At this, Gallowglass leaned back in his chair and regarded Philippe as though truly affronted by the implication. “Do not,” Philippe went on, “feign innocence. You insult me if you think I will believe it is coincidence that you are here, on Salem’s doorstep.”

Another silence. Gallowglass, apparently abandoning all pretense, drew a deep breath before speaking. “I came here when I heard of Brigette Bishop’s execution."

“Brigette Bishop has been dead for over fifty years-”

“Fifty-seven,” Gallowglass offered.

“I sent you orders to aid the Jacobite cause forty years passed,” Philippe said, his anger visibly mounting.

“I did not receive them. I was already here.”

Philippe’s jaw tightened. “Your briefs have always been few and far between, and ever since Hugh’s death I knew better than to lord over you with an iron grip.” His eyes flickered to Gallowglass’s tankard, which he was now nursing between two massive and heavily callused hands. “I sent a small army out in search of you three years ago – they scoured all of Britain- and to find out that you have been hiding out here-” Philippe shook his head. “I did not expect that you would dishonor yourself and your father by abandoning your post.”

“Well, it certainly took longer than expected for you to mention my dead father-”

“You forget, Eric, he was _my_ _son_.”

The loss of Hugh had been felt throughout the de Clermont family. He was an incredibly persuasive speaker, firm yet easy going, adored by all. After meeting Diana’s Matthew, Philippe had mourned the death of his eldest son all over again. He would have been the perfect heir – especially given the family’s destiny to protect a powerful witch.

“Brigette Bishop had a daughter,” Gallowglass said after a long pause. “Two, actually, but only one had taken the Bishop name. Rebecca. She was a witch, as is her daughter.”

“Then you have gotten too close, my grandson. What if the Bishops have realized that they are being watched by a _manjasang_? Have you any idea-” He stopped abruptly, aware of how much his voice had risen.

Wordlessly, Gallowglass stood and jerked his head towards the door, indicating that the two might continue their discussion away from the prying eyes and ears of warmbloods. Philippe followed his grandson outside and the two walked in silence until solid earth and trees gave way to sand. The beach curved north and eastwards as if pointing the way back to Sept-Tours. Philippe thought of Ysabeau, the grieved look on her face when he had said goodbye five months ago, and he wondered whether she would greet him with kisses or coldness when he returned.

The pair paced along the beach as waves quietly lapped ashore. Two warmbloods – young boys, by the look of them – where standing on a small jetty in the distance, fussing over some nets that had become torn.

Gallowglass broke their silence. “The Bishops have not seen me. I – I believe they felt the gaze of a _manjasang_ , but I did not allow them to see me.” He paused, waiting to see if this had assuaged his grandfather’s concerns; Philippe’s expression remained stoic. “There was a woman called Proctor – her husband was hanged at Salem, but she survived because she had been pregnant at the time of her trial and she was freed the year following. I believe she and her two children been helping the Bishops since the trials. But they cannot do so openly. The descendants of convicted witches growing close... draws attention.”

Philippe glanced up. Stars twinkled in the black sky overhead, but there was no moon to be seen. He thought idly about the Bishop and Proctor witches casting spells under the new moon.

“These witches,” Gallowglass went on, his tone suddenly exasperated, “they remain in Salem. I cannot understand why.”

“It is their home. And to leave would be an admission of guilt,” Philippe suggested. Over the centuries, he’d seen countless creatures who had chosen to stand their ground rather than turn tail and run away from their homes – even if their homes had been set afire.

“They are stubborn and reckless,” Gallowglass growled.

“Would you expect any less from my daughter’s ancestors?”

“They will get themselves killed, and then you will have no witch for a daughter!” The Gael’s normally bright blue eyes looked darker now, his features twisted with frustration. In that moment, Philippe saw something else lurking beneath his grandson’s expression, but he couldn’t quite place it. He stopped walking and looked at Gallowglass with narrowed eyes.

“Your dedication to protect my daughter is admirable. But Diana is a woman of letters. Look around-” Philippe gestured vaguely in the direction of the village “- this is _not_ her time. And we cannot interfere with the affairs of her ancestors lest we be discovered. _That_ will jeopardize everything – everything I have done to keep this secret-”

A shadow passed over Gallowglass’s face and an unpleasant realization spread over Philippe. He had seen the dawn of millennia, the rise and fall of kings, empires, and gods. It was not easy to surprise him – yet Gallowglass’s love for Diana left him visibly shocked.

“She is _Matthew’s mate_.” Gallowglass, noting the sudden edge in his grandfather’s voice, looked up and met Philippe’s honey-golden gaze.

“Matthew has no mate.” It was a feeble defense. Even Gallowglass did not sound convinced; shame clouded his eyes.

“Centuries may pass before _your aunt_ enters this world, that is true. But time is immaterial. They are bound together. You cannot hope to intercept your aunt-”

“No, that – my concern is whether the family is wiped out before she is born! Have you listened to what I have told you? The Bishop name is carried by only one woman each generation. Their existence is tenuous at best!  Without a bit of luck and much support from other witches, I wager they would not even be alive today!” Gallowglass drew a hand through his golden locks, a gesture of irritation not dissimilar to Matthew’s. He turned, his eyes scanning the shadows among the trees. He looked desperate to leave this conversation, but Philippe would not allow it.

“The Bishops are perfectly capable of fending for themselves. We must trust that they will survive without our interference. I cannot allow a de Clermont to act as guardian to this family for multiple generations. There is too much risk. We have no business in this land.” In truth, Philippe had considered the possibility of sending one de Clermont to act as his eyes and ears in the colonies, but there were too many unknowns, too many variables involved in overseeing the footholds of empires which stretch over vast oceans. Not to mention, there was nothing to provide Philippe with a plausible pretext for sending one of his children to the colonies.

Another icy silence fell in. Dying leaves rustled in the boughs of oak, elm, and maple trees. The two young boys were now presumably making their way home, defeated by their broken nets.

Although Philippe couldn’t help but feel affronted by this discovery – as all _manjasang_ generally recognize and honor a mated pair – he also felt pity for his grandson. It seems fate that Diana and Matthew met one another – but then was it also fated that Gallowglass would fall in love with her?

Finally, Philippe spoke again. “Diana only met you when she was here with her Matthew?”

“She did not know me when I met her at Woodstock. She thought I was Baldwin’s son,” Gallowglass snorted.

“When the time comes, it will be your task to protect Diana.”

“Me? Why-?” Gallowglass looked taken aback.

“I would say that you are well-suited to the job, my grandson.” _You love her, so you will not allow her to come to any harm_. “You shall do as you have done here. Protect her but keep your distance. She must not _know_ you until she has returned from our time.”

Gallowglass’s forehead creased, still not understanding how his grandfather would have arrived at such a decision. “How are we to know when the time has come?”

Philippe considered his words before answering. “As always. I will tell you when it is time.” Then Philippe frowned. “I have done you a kindness, treating you so when you deliberately abandoned your post and failed to carry out my commands.”

“I understand,” Gallowglass replied evenly. Like Matthew, the Gael seemed to resent being made subordinate to another. _Would he be more biddable now if Hugh still lived_?

Over the next several hours, Philippe and Gallowglass chatted about other matters – Britain’s keenness to levy more taxes on the colonists, the suppression of the Jacobite uprising, the summer drought in Massachusetts Bay. Gallowglass asked after the rest of the family.

“And Matthew?”

“He is as he was – before Diana, that is. He walks through this world as though there is no joy to be found. But brooding suits him far better than it does you,” Philippe chuckled.

Once his horse was refreshed, the de Clermont patriarch decided to say goodbye to his grandson; the journey back would take another 5 months – perhaps less if the winds were on his side – which meant by the time he arrived back at Sept-Tours, he will have spent nearly a year away from Ysabeau. For a _manjasang_ , a year is nothing more than a day; it was not even strange for Philippe and Ysabeau to spend so long apart. But the ocean between them and the iciness of their last conversation seemed to make time pass even slower. For the first time in centuries, Philippe felt the crush of time as though he were once again warmblooded.

Before leaving for Boston, Philippe felt the need to give Gallowglass another piece of cautionary advice. “It is best if you never speak of this to Matthew... or Diana.” Philippe emphasized his message with a meaningful look and Gallowglass nodded in understanding.

“I shall carry it to the grave.”

_Hopefully your grave is much farther away than mine._

“Now, my grandson, I want you to leave this land. I will give you another assignment elsewhere, but I mislike this place.  It has become more apparent that the British are struggling to maintain their hold here. These men are not pleased to see the fruits of their labor feed a king across the water.”

“You speak as if a war is coming,” Gallowglass mused, his face reflecting both interest and concern.

Philippe responded with a knowing smile. “It would not be the first time that an empire crumbled under its own weight.”

With that, Philippe de Clermont swung himself onto his mount. He gave his grandson another look, wondering if this would be the last time they would see one another. _No, it cannot be._

Gallowglass bent into a small bow and flashed a lopsided smile before turning away. Philippe put his heels into the thoroughbred’s sides. _Until we meet again._


End file.
